


lost constellations

by myconstant



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Sexy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myconstant/pseuds/myconstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's to winning.</p><p>(post-<i>corazon</i> / written for porn battle xi / prompts: drinking, sickness)</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost constellations

Years later, Elle sits with a styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee near the back of a lecture hall in Los Angeles, waiting for the room to clear.

It’s January and the air conditioning is on full, the vent just above her head blowing frigid air, and she crosses her arms over her chest, thinking idly about fate and chance. People begin to rustle books and pencils and notes together as the enthusiastic applause subsides; Elle taps her foot.

He’s still at the podium, shuffling papers into his messenger bag, and gradually the hall empties. He doesn’t look up at her, but she still knows that he’s seen her - his eyes had flickered to the back of the hall halfway through his talk on parataxic distortion in the context of profiling and for a moment, his voice had slid up a register and Elle had leaned forward in her seat.

Fate or chance.

She can’t decide which seems more appropriate.

When she stops to really consider it, it’s strange - how seeing him has formed this knot in her stomach. Most days, Quantico exists in her mind as a remnant of a bygone century. Hearing him preface some word no one’s ever heard of with _There’s this thing called..._ makes it all feel more like just last week.

The chair next to her creaks as he sits down and she suddenly isn’t sure if she can handle with this without alcohol. His hair is shorter now and those glasses are gone, but it’s still him - every inch of his demeanor is still him. She thinks about offering a complement on his lecture or his vastly improved public speaking skills or _something_ , but that seems too tired and trite.

“How you’ve grown,” she says finally.

Reid smiles and then reaches down to tug at the fabric of his corduroy pants, revealing mismatched socks. “Actually, I'm not sure about that.”

Elle holds back a laugh.

 

 

His flight back to DC doesn’t leave until the next day and she lives here now, so they go back to her apartment and she pours them both a drink. Reid stands in her living room, hands tucked neatly into pockets and eyes evaluating the books she keeps neatly on a shelf.

“Don’t you dare profile me,” she snaps, but it’s half-hearted at best. She knows he already has.

He shrugs and sits down, his fingers curling around his glass. She notices a thin yellow bracelet on his left hand, but doesn’t ask.

There is an amicable conversation - or as amicable as she gets these days - and he doesn’t stutter as much as she thought he would. He describes things with vague, distant brush strokes: he was just in Miami, there have been some arrivals and a few departures in the BAU, everyone is (for the moment) fine.

That is to say a lot has changed, and while Elle can see the marks clearly on his face, they are written in a language she cannot read.

She doesn’t try to translate. Not yet.

Instead, she replies with something about a consulting firm and going back to grad school, and with the unspoken speed and efficiency that only two people with an extensive shared history can manage, they continue to plough halfway through a bottle of pricey vodka and turn the conversation towards anything other than themselves. Elle forces him to recite various statistics and lists and facts, all the while wondering both why he lets her do this and how the fuck he’s even keeping up with her anyway.

There’s a theory, but she remains unsure until Reid abruptly stands up in the middle of listing the eight U.S. presidents who did not attend college and walks to the oriel window to close the curtains on the sun setting on L.A.

“The light," he says. "It’s always so bright."

That’s when Elle’s wonder becomes conviction. She puts down her glass and walks towards him until he’s caught between her and an ivory white wall. His expression is empty.

 _Here’s to winning_ , she thinks.

 

 

If Elle Greenaway ever imagined what it would be like to kiss Spencer Reid in the middle of her overpriced, sparse, completely impersonal Hollywood apartment, the actual experience would not be much different. He’s hesitant like he still needs to acclimate, so she does the work for both of them, coaxes his mouth open with her tongue while pushing off his cardigan and working on the buttons of his shirt. Reid tastes like alcohol and starts kissing her back, his hands dropping from her face down to the narrow expanse of skin between her blouse and jeans. A static charge or something similar runs up her spine and she tries to repress a sigh.

She leans back slightly to study him, his fingers rubbing small circles into the curve of her waist. His hair’s ruffled, eyes wide, shirt falling off, mouth slightly parted in a way that is decidedly not unattractive, and when she leans forward to brush her lips against his neck, she can feel him against her.

“What do you want?” she asks, her voice low in his ear.

He pauses briefly before replying, “Clarity.”

Somehow, even without translation, Elle thinks she understands.

She pushes him back against the wall and drops to her knees.

 

 

Only once does she pause to remember who they both are - - former colleagues, threadbare spirits.

But then Reid slicks two fingers inside of her and she shivers against the doorway to her room, the metal knob pressing uncomfortably into her side, and Elle decides that she doesn’t care.

 

 

They fuck in her bedroom, limbs and bed sheets all tangled without much grace. She rocks on top of him, fiercely moving her hips against his, as always setting their pace. Reid groans at the friction, bucking beneath her, and she looks down at him through heavy lids. He’s young, but he’s seen a lot and they both seem too tangled for their years. Elle leans down and kisses him, her tongue teasing his until he brings a hand up to trace the soft underside of her breast and rolls her beneath him so it’s her back against the bed and her legs hitched up around his gaunt body and then drives into her, long and hard. A gasp catches in the back of her throat as one of his hands reaches up to cradle her face in a manner that is almost, maybe once caring. He mutters something that sounds like the laws of physics along the contour of her neck, the heat of his breath rolling across her skin. Elle exhales against her pillow and catches one of his hands with hers; their fingers link together. Elle stops herself from leaning away.

“Full of surprises,” she says right after she comes. “Look at you, Dr. Reid.”

He kisses her quiet.

 

 

Shortly after, he rolls out of the bed. Elle turns over and catches his wrist.

“You’re not her, Reid.”

Even in the dark, she can see his frown. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever happens, you’ll be fine.” she says. “You’ll be fine.”

Spencer exhales and lies back down.

 

 

Fate or chance.

Elle isn’t sure it matters.


End file.
